Anomaly
by Pyreite
Summary: [ME-3 Synthesis Ending] Six months after the Reaper War, the galaxy is rebuilding. The Normandy's crew remain stranded on an alien world, unable to make the neccessary repairs to return to civilised space. Hope is coming, in the unexpected form of Shepard, a dedicated crew, and a Reaper frigate piloted by Harbinger. [Revamped - Ongoing]
1. Prime Directive

**Anomaly**

_** by Pyreite**_

**Synopsis:** Post ME3 – Synthesis Ending

_Takes place six months after the final battle on Earth._

**Chapter 1: Prime Directive**

The hologram flickered to life inside Shepard's quarters. The Commander breathed deep and evenly as she rested. She slept to heal after spending several months inside the medical-bay's Reaper-grade regeneration tank. Her organs, bones, and skin had taken weeks to regrow. The painstakingly slow process had been hindered by a laundry list of mechanical repairs to her myriad cybernetic implants.

The Reapers, led by Harbinger, had unanimously agreed to revive Shepard. It was imperative that they kept this unusually compassionate human alive. Her choice to save EDI and the Geth from destruction had inevitably spared them too. The most ancient, feared, and powerful biomechanical fleet in the galaxy had found their unlikely salvation in Synthesis. The endless cycles of the Harvest were finally concluded.

Harbinger's holographic form was accurate to the minutest detail. He observed Shepard through the eyes of her lost lover. She seemed so small and vulnerable lying there, buried under an array of thick thermal blankets. She slept like a child in the womb, knees curled inwards, arms and legs pulled tight to her belly. Dark hair obscured her face, the strands slick with sweat, as she slipped in and out of a reoccurring nightmare.

Shepard had been troubled of late. Her dreams full of dead faces and terrible omens. Harbinger ventured closer, his steps deliberately light, as not to disturb his sleeping charge. Much of her human empathy had been integrated into his Reaper processes. Harbinger couldn't help but pander to her still disappointingly _organic_ outlook on life.

Shepard would always, to some extent, retain her mortal coil. She could not fully discard the core of her former existence without losing herself entirely. Harbinger pondered now, as he had in recent weeks, how such an anomaly had come to exist within the ranks of humanity. Shepard was as unquantifiable and unknowable as a newborn star. She had catalysed an irrevocable change that had ended the aeons that he and his brethren had spent harvesting the galaxy's various space-faring civilisations.

Countless worlds, over two million years, had fallen to the Reapers. Nations had been overthrown. Cities scoured clean. Innumerable generations had been lost in the conflagration of war that had raged across the galaxy during each and every fifty-thousand year cycle. Harbinger and the vast Reaper fleet had been erasing, rewriting, and redirecting the flow of galactic history for millennia, until a stubborn organic had dared to challenge fate.

Harbinger slowed in his stride as he ventured to the edge of Shepard's bed. He watched her, sleeping peacefully, under the layers of tangled blankets. She was deceptively fragile, her skin beaded with sweat, as she dreamed of darkness and fire and death. Harbinger heard the sharp intake of her breath, a rasp of hot air sucked inward through chapped lips. He felt that strange alien twinge of concern when Shepard's fingers curled like claws into her bedspread.

Harbinger sighed, mandibles fluttering worriedly, when she keened like a distraught child. He instinctually sought to comfort Shepard. Harbinger reached over her arm, bare to the shoulder, as a blanket slid aside to reveal her shimmering pearlescent skin. The cybernetic glow was more prominent during designated rest-hours when the lights were dim. Shepard was beautiful in her transformation, still human in shape and appearance, but now so much _more_.

Harbinger stroked Shepard's cheek when her cries escalated. He repeated the gesture, curling his fingers inwards as he added the gentle pressure of his knuckles. His touch had enough tangibility to rouse the slumbering woman. Shepard stirred to wakefulness, her vision blurry, and her speech slurred with the heaviness of sleep. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the hologram that shed light and warmth over the lip of her bed.

Harbinger had chosen his form well. He was tall, lean, and slender in the way of turians and garbed in the snug blue, white, and grey civilian clothes Shepard remembered. The illusion was complete when she smiled at the sight of him. Harbinger found it strange to be considered an object of her affections, but he willingly played the part to help speed her recovery. Shepard was always too fatigued, on nights like this, to notice that he was a mere holographic facsimile of her beloved.

"Garrus", she said drowsily.

Harbinger had drawn the combat engineer's form from Shepard's most recent memories. It was a simple thing to imitate the turian's facial expressions. The Reaper AI knew just how to tilt his head, angle his jaw, and stretch the stiff yet supple plate-like turian mouth into a semblance of a smile. Mandibles tight to his face, his blue eyes twinkling, and Harbinger spoke in a voice with flanging sub-vocals that made Shepard sigh in happiness and relief.

"Nightmares again?" asked Harbinger.

Shepard nodded tiredly. "It's nothing I can't handle". Shepard yawned, the lethargy that had troubled her for weeks now, perhaps months (she wasn't entirely sure) bled into her limbs again. The heaviness spread through her chest and shoulders, flowed down her spine, spread through her legs, and finally settled in the soles of her feet. She was exhausted.

"I'm fine, Garrus, really", assured Shepard. She placed a hand over her mouth to conceal an impending yawn. Shepard blushed when Harbinger's mandibles quivered in amusement. The red flush in her cheeks was reassuring to see. Shepard was slowly, but surely regaining her strength.

"You should sleep, Shepard", advised Harbinger. He stroked her cheek again, a habit gleaned from her memories, that her turian lover had often used to soothe and settle her down for the night. Harbinger shook his head when her smile turned into a frown. Shepard was reluctant to return to her nightmares so soon after waking. "It's all right. I'll be right here beside you. Close your eyes, Shepard", coaxed Harbinger.

The Reaper AI emulated the turian equivalent of a smile again. The visual cue seemed to reassure his sleepy charge. Shepard returned that smile, albeit sheepishly, before her eyelids closed over a pair of irises that glimmered like stars. They were akin now, family in the most intimate sense of the word, though Harbinger doubted she would take kindly to the idea. He waited until Shepard's breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

The Reaper AI set the sub-routines necessary to induce fatigue on stand-by as Shepard's conscious mind was subdued by the pleasant hum of relaxation. Harbinger allowed other programs to resume their default monitoring of Shepard's condition. The hologram flickered as the face and form of Garrus Vakarian vanished. Harbinger relayed a message to the rest of the Reaper fleet. Shepard was transitioning well into Synthesis, her vital signs strong and regular, though the adaptation to the Reaper hive-mind would take longer than expected.

The message was received and exchanged by the innumerable members of the Reaper fleet. Their prime directive, to resurrect and return Shepard to her crew, was within days of completion. She was almost home, and waiting for her beneath the trees of an isolated jungle-planet, was the real Garrus Vakarian. Harbinger directed the frigate, a miniature version of a gargantuan dreadnought-class Reaper, to approach the distant star system. The ship initiated its FTL drive and launched into hyperspace. Shepard had challenged fate, gambled on chance, and sacrificed her body and soul to end the Harvest.

The gift of Synthesis would not be squandered. The Reapers would uphold their end of Shepard's bargain. Harbinger and the Reaper fleet had much to offer the survivors of the last Reaper War. Knowledge would be shared, planets reclaimed, and cities rebuilt. The first gesture of reconciliation would be the deliverance of Shepard, the repair of the damaged Normandy, and the recovery of her crew.


	2. Undeniably Shepard

_**Anomaly **_

_**by Pyreite**_

**Synopsis:** Post ME3 – Synthesis Ending

**Chapter 2: Undeniably Shepard**

Joker knew he would find him inside the Captain's cabin. He and their crew-mates missed Shepard terribly, but none felt her loss as keenly as the Normandy's Gunnery Officer. The suction and release of pressure, the muted electronic beep to signal entry, and the door to the loft slid open. Joker found him thumbing through the thickest of Shepard's sketchbooks. Garrus was perfectly content to lounge in an unmade bed, surrounded by a mountain of rumpled blankets and dented pillows.

Joker grimaced when he wasn't immediately acknowledged. Garrus didn't spare him a single friendly glance as he perused the pages of Shepard's sketchbook. The myriad crude doodles and intimate sketches consumed his attention. Several awkward moments passed in silence until Garrus gruffly addressed him. The flanging growl, a gravelly guttural rumble, revealed the turian's irritable mood.

"What do you want, Joker?" grumbled Garrus.

Joker was aware of Garrus's less than charitable feelings towards him. He'd been given the cold shoulder for weeks. Garrus was adept at controlling his temper, but he was terrible at concealing his fury. The underlying tension between them was painfully obvious in the turian's blunt questions, cutting remarks, and frosty blue-eyed glares. Joker suspected that Garrus thought him a spineless coward for fleeing the battlefield on Earth, despite Shepard's direct order to get the Normandy and her crew off-world.

"I've chosen to brave the Archangel's lair to solve a mystery that's troubling the crew", declared Joker. He invited himself into Garrus's personal space as he took a step inside the room. He rolled his eyes when he heard that familiar _hostile_ throaty-flanging hiss. Garrus had turned territorial after the Normandy had crashed planet-side. He rarely permitted anyone other than himself setting foot inside the Captain's cabin.

Joker knew better than to push his luck. Garrus would very likely break a bone or two if he dared to get _touchy_-_feely_ with any of Shepard's personal effects. Members of the crew had been assaulted than forcibly ejected from the Captain's cabin the second they'd tried to appropriate an unused pistol mod, a magazine of abandoned thermal clips, or a piece of armour or weaponry. Joker wanted to stay in Garrus's good graces long enough to air that sensitive subject again. He would wield words like weapons and guilt like a pair of shackles to compel the turian to return Shepard's plaque.

"Joker", said Garrus. "You can take that little mystery, shove it up your crippled ass, and fuck off back out the door you came in". Seconds passed in silence as the Normandy's pilot refused to accept the invitation to escape. Garrus dryly remarked on Joker's pigheadedness when he didn't hear the cabin door slide open again. "You always were a stubborn bastard".

Joker winced at the turian's tone; the flanging sub-vocals emphasized the rumble of his displeasure. The crew of the Normandy mourned their Commanding Officer, and after spending six months planet-side since the crash, were ready to say their goodbyes. The memorial wall on the crew-deck, bearing the names of the crew-members lost during the Reaper War, was missing its newest addition. The steel plaque had mysteriously disappeared. Garrus Vakarian was the prime suspect.

"I'm sorry to burst your bubble of misery, Garrus", Joker replied sarcastically. "But we're running low on steel plaques, you know, that bear the title _Commander Shepard_ printed in nice big capital letters". Joker glowered at the annoyingly uncooperative turian. "You wouldn't have a plaque like that hidden in your cowl or under that spiky fringe-thing that keeps your head warm right? I'm just asking and not outright accusing you of stealing it to piss off Kaidan, or, to make Tali cry again".

Joker's lip curled indignantly when Garrus gave him the silent treatment. The turian ignored him in favour of rustling pages, admiring Shepard's sketches, and reminiscing about the woman that had saved them all. Joker sighed exasperatedly, breath hissing noisily through his teeth, as he reminded himself to go easy on Garrus. The turian (being Shepard's lover) had naturally taken her loss the hardest. Joker understood his pain, especially when he'd experienced the same fear and anxiety whenever EDI's mobile platform had accompanied Shepard on a mission.

Joker wasn't afraid anymore now that EDI was miraculously living, breathing, and capable of being so wonderfully human. He was grateful that their relationship had come full-circle, though his happiness was tinged with bitter-sweet regret. Garrus was wallowing in his own misery because Shepard was _gone_. Joker knew that nothing could fill the gaping void she'd left aboard the Normandy. He'd hoped that setting the steel plaque bearing her name and title on the memorial wall, with all the others, would finally give himself and the crew a measure of peace.

"I guess I'm the only _adult_ here", griped Joker. He frowned when Garrus snorted derisively. The turian was starting to grate on his nerves. "Damn it, Garrus. Why do you always have to make things harder than they need to be?" asked Joker. "All I want is Shepard's plaque then I'll leave you alone".

Joker groaned in annoyance when he was ignored again. He shook his head pityingly as he took stock of his surroundings. The Captain's cabin was an exercise in organized chaos. Shepard's spaceship collection (a disaster after the Normandy's crash) had been carefully cleaned and replaced inside the display-case overlooking her desk. The broad piece of steel, trimmed in black and white, provided ample room for the state-of-the-art pair of PC terminals that was her private workstation.

Joker could see that Garrus had reorganised the loft. The Captain's cabin appeared lived in and comfortable. Joker was uneasy with the way Garrus had kept the space so undeniably _Shepard_. The stacks of datapads left out, the thermal clips scattered across multiple shelves, and the array of guns stored on racks in the weapons-locker reminded him painfully of their missing Commander. The cabin was still so full of Shepard's presence that Joker wanted to curl into a ball and cry.

He sniffed loudly as the pressure built in the corners of his eyes. Joker's throat tightened when Garrus finally broke the silence. "I never knew that Shepard had any sense of artistic flair but here it is, page after page of sketches, abstracts, and portraits". The turian tipped the edge of Shepard's sketchbook over, and presented Joker with an image that made his stomach plummet to his feet. He saw himself sprawling in the pilot's seat on the Normandy's bridge, captured in shades of silver and black, as he slept at his station.

"I honestly wonder, during all of the fighting, how Shepard managed to find the time to put charcoal to paper", mused Garrus.

"She _was _constantly rallying people, collecting resources, and running missions during the war", stated Joker. "Shepard would have needed a hobby during the down-times just to keep herself sane". He stiffened when a pair of unblinking blue eyes fixed upon him with the unnerving focus of an eagle. The turian's gaze conveyed his judgement and disappointment. Joker was unable to bear the weight of that silent accusation. He looked away first, shoulders slumping, and head bowing self-consciously.

Joker trembled with the strain of maintaining his composure. Now was not the time to dissolve into a pool of tears. If Shepard could keep her cool under fire than he could too. Joker's voice cracked as he explained why the Normandy had made one last desperate retreat from the battlefield in London. The excuse, though perfectly justifiable, sounded hollow to his own ears.

"Shepard ordered me to get the Normandy out of ground-zero. I'm the helmsman. It's my job to pilot the ship. I had to get us out of danger or risk being shot-down. You might hate me for it Garrus, but I did what the Commander wanted me to do".

The turian's mandibles were drawn tight to his plated-chin. He scowled as he remembered the Normandy's shuttle-bay door closing on the sight of Shepard running back into the fray. "I know". Garrus closed the sketchbook and reverently set it down on the night-stand beside the bed. He sighed agitatedly. The tension between himself and Joker had been brewing for months.

Garrus couldn't fault the pilot's logic. It was the helmsman's duty to follow the command of their superior officers. Joker had saved Shepard's wounded squad-mates at great risk to the Normandy SR-2 and her crew. Garrus understood the awkwardness of his position, but in his heart, the turian perceived the pilot's past actions as abandonment. He glared at Joker as he voiced his own accusations.

"Shepard needed us and you left her behind", Garrus declared grimly. He snorted scornfully when Joker cringed like a cowardly vorcha. "Orders or not, you repeated the same mistake that killed her when the Collectors shot down the SR-1". Garrus was disgusted when Joker trembled like a guilt-ridden child. "I hope your short-sightedness", he said coldly. "Didn't get her killed this time too".

Joker bared his teeth like a snarling varren. The shame was burnt to cinders by a sudden burst of white-hot outrage. He had shed tears aplenty as a child over broken bones, cracked ribs, and fractured fingers. Now as a survivor of the Reaper War, he struggled with the the constant guilt and grief over sacrificing Shepard to save her ship and crew. Joker's fury erupted in a scalding tirade.

"You selfish turian bastard! You're not the only one that_ loves_ the Commander! Pull that spiky-head out of your ass for five seconds and look around this ship!_ Everyone is mourning_! Shepard belonged to the whole crew not just you!"

Joker seethed with frustration and regret as he turned his back on Garrus Vakarian.

"I want the plaque returned". The pilot glanced over his shoulder. He glowered at his turian crew-mate. "You have until tomorrow morning to put it back on the memorial wall, or I'll ask EDI to permanently lock you out of the loft". Joker limped to the entrance of the Captain's cabin, slapped the holographic-lock, and hurried into the hall when the door slid open.

"I'm trying to hold the crew together, Garrus", spat Joker as he walked out. "Your selfishness is tearing us apart. We need to say goodbye to Shepard so we can move on with our lives. The longer you hold on to the past, the worse the pain will be for all of us. I'm giving you the next twenty-four hours to man-up and do the right thing".

Garrus sagged against his rumpled pillows. His anger spent as the melancholy returned. He heard the elevator chime as it reached the 1st floor and Joker's shuffling tread as the pilot dragged himself inside. The hiss of the doors, the same metallic peal, and Joker was gone as quickly as he'd arrived. Garrus's composure crumbled when he was alone again.

He keened his grief in a burst of short and sharp flanging notes.

"_Damn you_, _Shepard_!" cried the distraught turian. "_You promised to return to me_!" Garrus tilted his head back, spread his mandibles wide, and opened his fanged jaws. The flanging shriek of despair ricocheted like a stray bullet off the cabin's silver-grey walls. Garrus doubled over, plated chin to knee, as the sound of his own misery echoed through the loft.

"Where are you, Shepard?" sobbed the heart-broken turian. "By the Spirits. _Where are you_?" He huddled in the dishevelled pile of blankets like a lost lamb. Garrus curled in on himself, head bowed dejectedly, as his voice dissolved into a stream of flanging grunts and gurgles. He had refused to mourn with his crew-mates. Now, behind a closed door, he finally came undone.


	3. Just A Mortal Woman

**_Anomaly _**

**_by Pyreite_**

**Synopsis:** Post ME3 – Synthesis Ending

**Warning**: _This chapter contains mild coarse language, inter-species flirting, ghost-like entities caught on camera, and innuendo courtesy of Matriarch Aethyta. Discretion is advised._

**Chapter 3: Just A Mortal Woman**

Miranda Lawson scowled when the quarian engineer bent over to retrieve a storage crate. The grey formfitting enviro-suit defined his toned buttocks and gave her an excellent view of his muscular legs too. Miranda was fairly certain the cheeky bastard deliberately put himself on display just to be distracting. The past six months spent aboard a Reaper frigate with a bunch of frustrated engineers, stressed commandos, and anxious medical personnel had tested the limits of her patience. The entire crew from Zan'Vael vas Rannoch to the frank asari matriarch Aethyta were a necessary evil.

Miranda could endure a _few_ more days of her Chief Engineer's shameless flirting. A cross-species liaison, unfortunately for Zan, wasn't her top priority. Miranda was more concerned with keeping Shepard alive than in entertaining the possibility of dating outside her own species. She returned the scrutiny of Zan's timid quarian sidekick. Veetor'Nara was a talented machinist, but a lousy wingman.

The quarian continued to wear his helmet more out of habit than necessity. The pearlescent glow of his eyes and the vague outline of his nose, were all that Miranda could see of him through the tinted visor. She chose to remain civil despite his blatant staring. "Veetor", said Miranda. "Is something wrong?"

Miranda frowned when Veetor nodded vigorously. He thumbed the collar of his enviro-suit, curled his fingers under the chin of his helmet, and made a series of short and sharp tugging motions. Miranda stared when Veetor hastily repeated the action. She tapped her omnitool, convinced that the poor quarian was having a seizure. She was ready to put a call through to the med-bay when Zan'Vael turned around.

"I found them Veetor! Now we can replace the shuttle's L278-Tesla couplings!" Zan'Vael was ebullient after half an hour of fruitless searching. He brandished a large black and white storage-crate. Zan eagerly nodded to the cargo-bay door. "We'll need to make a few adjustments to compensate for the Reaper upgrades", he explained. "But these should be sufficient enough to last until we can fabricate new units".

Zan would have made his way across the room, out into the hall, and down to engineering if Miranda hadn't provided an eye-catching distraction. He was rooted on the spot as his gaze focused with unerring accuracy on the open collar of Miranda's skin-tight cat-suit. Veetor groaned miserably. Air sputtered and hissed through the voice-filter in his helmet. He was disappointed that the ship's Commanding Officer hadn't taken his warnings_ seriously_.

"Miranda, while I appreciate the view", Zan said dryly. "I would be more comfortable if you closed the seals on your suit". Zan'Vael sniffed haughtily. "Since, you have made your opinion about cross-species liaisons very clear. I think it would be wisest for you to resume checking our supplies without staring at my ass like a varren in heat".

Miranda arched an eyebrow, arms folding across her chest, as she appraised the quarian from the top of his helmeted head to the tips of his booted toes. She was far too much the consummate professional to act like a blushing school-girl. She was a grown woman not an immature teenager. Miranda could confidently admit that she'd been caught red-handed without feeling an ounce of embarrassment.

"I'm a woman, Zan", explained Miranda. "I'm genetically hard-wired to appreciate the masculine form". Her calm and controlled expression belied the lascivious twinkle in her eye. "If you deliberately bend over in front of me", stated Miranda. "Than I am naturally going to look and evaluate everything I see".

Miranda shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly as she made a suggestion.

"If you don't want me to appreciate your fabulously toned arse, Zan, than perhaps you should consider wearing something a little more conservative".

Veetor groaned miserably when Zan'Vael bristled like an angry krogan. Miranda had crossed the fine line between flirtatious banter and outright crudeness. Quarian sensibilities were easy to offend when an alien dared to question the validity of wearing an enviro-suit indoors. Veetor glanced between them, suddenly nervous, when appraising glances were cast left and right. He suspected that Miranda secretly enjoyed baiting Zan, especially when an explosive reaction was _always_ guaranteed.

"You humans and your warped sense of propriety!", snarled Zan'Vael vas Rannoch. "My enviro-suit is not scandalous! It is snug by necessity to maximise comfort and minimise friction! Which you would know, Miranda, if you had bothered to familiarise yourself with quarian physiology!"

Veetor gasped when Miranda, baited in turn, called Zan's bluff. He trembled as her voice deepened into a husky feminine rasp.

"Are you volunteering to educate me, Zan?" asked Miranda.

Veetor gaped when she closed the distance between herself and his friend in two strides. Zan was taller by a foot and a half, but Miranda wasn't the kind of woman to be intimidated by his loftier height. Veetor gulped when she bravely reached across the storage-crate in Zan's arms. He heard the scrape of her manicured nails as she traced the outline of a broad quarian pectoral through the thin material of Zan's figure-hugging enviro-suit.

Veetor hung his head in shame when his friend took the bait hook, line and sinker. Zan was a brilliant engineer, but he was an idiot when it came to deadly beautiful women. Veetor couldn't bear to watch his fellow quarian make a fool of himself. Miranda was too experienced in the art of seduction to take it easy on Zan. Veetor shook his helmeted head when he heard her sultry tone, honey slick, and ripe with invitation.

"I'd be an excellent student", suggested Miranda. "I have an eidetic memory. I'm a good listener. I also respond well to visual and auditory aids". Veetor sighed when the storage-crate slipped from Zan's limp fingers. He flinched when it hit the cargo-bay floor with a deafening bang. Veetor discreetly averted his eyes when Miranda leaned over the crate to inspect Zan's booted toes. Her garb of choice, a black and white cat-suit, left little to the imagination.

The silver zip cutting down the middle of her chest was at half-mast too. Miranda gave Zan'Vael vas Rannoch an excellent view of her ample cleavage. "Are you all right, Zan?", Miranda asked sweetly. The batting of her lashes, the glint of concern in her blue eyes, and the pursing of her pouty lips left Zan breathing hard. Miranda concealed her amusement well when the inside of his visor fogged over with a layer of thick condensation.

"I'm f-f-fine", stammered Zan'Vael.

Miranda decided to put the poor flustered quarian out of his misery. She took a step forward, the heels of her boots clicking on the cargo-bay's metal floor, as she invaded Zan's personal space. She raised a dainty hand and boldly wrapped her fingers around one of the hoses connected to the respirator in his helmet. Miranda squeezed the thin line of plastic until she heard a muted pop. She abruptly released the hose, smiling in amusement when Zan gasped, as a sudden blast of cold-air cleared the condensation on the inside of his visor.

The pair of pearlescent eyes, wide as saucers, peered back at Miranda through the tinted glass. "You're a terrible liar, Zan", she purred lasciviously. Miranda leaned inward, smile predatory, as she pursed her lips. She boldly kissed the cool surface of Zan's visor. The contact was brief though she left a sizeable imprint of her mouth in a smear of ruby-red lipstick.

Miranda licked her lips as if she had tasted something sweet and delicious.

The tell-tale groan, garbled by Zan's heavy-breathing, crackled tinnily through the voice-filter in his helmet. Miranda admired his self-control. Zan was trembling like a newborn lamb, though he kept his gauntleted hands to himself. The dual fingers and thumb, garbed in the snug layers of his enviro-suit, curled into the bed of his palms. Miranda was flattered when he didn't make a grab for her backside or try to pull her unwillingly into an intimate embrace.

"And you are a terrible tease", growled Zan. The embarrassed quarian, ignoring the kiss imprinted on his visor, loomed over Miranda like an angry varren. "I concede this round to the victor", said Zan. His visor, clear of condensation, provided Miranda with an excellent view of his balefully glaring eyes. Zan was not pleased to be left wanting, nor did he find her flirtatiousness amusing.

"But I promise you", warned the ship's Chief Engineer. His long fingers unfurled as he reached for Miranda's skin-tight cat-suit. He ignored her sultry look when he gripped the slick black and white material with one hand and the silver catch of her zipper with the other. The catch was well below her collarbone. The zip barely held the row of tiny straining silver teeth closed round the swell of her breasts.

"The next round will be mine, Miranda", cautioned Zan as he looked down her top. He admired the hard-won view for a handful of seconds. Courtesy got the best of him when Miranda's thigh ground against the codpiece of his enviro-suit. Zan'Vael remembered his quarian manners before she decided to knee him in the groin. He pulled the zipper closed with a buzz of metal teeth.

"The odds are in my favour", retorted Miranda. She retreated diplomatically, sliding her thigh out from between his own, when Zan courteously removed his thick gauntleted fingers from her person. She smiled amusedly as he carefully extracted himself, stepping backward cautiously, planting one foot behind the other. Miranda was flattered when he took special care not to brush or graze her clothing lest the fabric of her cat-suit catch on a metal buckle or strap. His enviro-suit flexed supplely with each and every movement.

Miranda had expected a graceful retreat. She was surprised when Zan lingered longer than was polite. She felt a twinge of anticipation when he loomed over her, the tinted visor of his helmet, concealing the very human-like quarian face beneath. Miranda saw his eyes, glistening like white pearls, as he regarded her cagily. She raised her chin haughtily in preparation for the inevitable backlash of his temper.

Miranda braced herself. She was ready for a scathing reply or a witty remark. Zan had a glib tongue when he was annoyed. Miranda was suspicious when Zan offered neither criticism nor sarcasm. His voice was soft, silky, and undeniably magnetic when he made a simple statement.

"The odds are in your favour today", replied Zan. "But as you humans say, _fortune favours the brave_. You will not reign supreme forever. This I will guarantee".

Miranda heard the unspoken _because I'll knock you down a peg or two_. She fearlessly returned Zan's gaze. "I always win", she declared confidently. Miranda frowned when she heard a husky flanging chuckle. The casual glide of a gauntleted thumb across her lower-lip silenced the reprimand on the tip of her tongue. She was amused when Zan called her bluff.

"Ah, Miranda, but you've never played the game of love against a quarian".

Zan gave her a conciliatory nod before he retreated to a respectful distance. He walked round the fallen storage crate, bent his knees, and extended his arms to retrieve it. He was aware of Miranda's interest as her eyes roved over his enviro-suit. She unconsciously appreciated what she saw. Zan would normally have found such attention repellent, but his attraction to Miranda made her scrutiny flattering rather than offensive.

"That won't improve your chances, Zan", countered Miranda.

Zan laughed in a rich and rolling cadence of amusement. "I am not honour-bound like a turian", he advised Miranda. "I do not have to play by the rules". Zan knew that she was just as entertained as he was by their ability to match each other _trick _for _trap_ in their unconventional chess-match of a courtship. He straightened, the storage-crate in hand, and made her a firm promise.

"Quarians are inventive, Miranda. When the most direct path to our goal is blocked by an immovable obstacle. We find another route".

The gallant knightly nod amused Miranda. She smiled when Zan turned around, presented his muscular backside, and walked away from her. His hips swayed provocatively. Miranda appreciated the sight of Zan's retreating form as he headed for the door of the cargo-bay. He really did have a very nice arse.

"Till later, Miranda", called Zan as the door to the cargo-bay slid open.

"Till later, Zan", agreed Miranda. She bit her lip when the cheeky bastard waltzed through the open door with a bounce in his step. She was unsurprised when Veetor lingered behind for several uncomfortable seconds. Zan was finally out of sight and earshot. Miranda regarded the shy quarian patiently as he mustered the courage to talk to her.

Several seconds passed in tense silence. Veetor anxiously shuffled his booted feet. Miranda took pity on him. He was consciously giving her a wide berth. Veetor hovered at the door to the cargo-bay, within ten feet of her, but well enough away to give himself adequate room to make a hasty escape.

Miranda would ordinarily have found her ability to make Veetor nervous amusing under different circumstances. Now she felt genuinely sympathetic for the neurotic quarian. He was jumpier than a salarian in a heat-wave. "Veetor", she urged. "I give you leave to speak freely. Tell me what is on your mind".

Miranda resisted the temptation to roll her eyes when Veetor twiddled his thumbs. He had spent far too much time around Dr. Michel's team of medics. He was already adopting their irritatingly _human _mannerisms. Miranda reigned in her temper. Veetor could bring out the worst in her when he cowered like a frightened mouse.

"_Veetor"_, warned Miranda. The change in her voice from gentle coaxing to an authoritative growl made the timid quarian flinch. Miranda refrained from clenching her teeth in frustration. Trying to have a civil conversation with Veetor was more painful than pulling teeth without anaesthesia. Anxiety clogged his voice-box faster than a wad of toilet-paper jammed in a sewer-pipe.

Miranda frowned when Veetor bowed his helmeted head like a guilty child. He muttered to himself, the flange of his voice crackling tinnily through the voice-filter in his helmet. "Veetor!" cried Miranda, her patience wearing thin. "Will you stop mumbling!" She rolled her eyes exasperatedly when the sharpness in her tone made him cringe. The doors to the cargo-bay hissed open with a metallic peal.

Veetor sensed an opportunity for escape. He scuttled across the floor like a spider when an imposing individual entered the cargo-bay. Miranda sighed irritably when he took refuge behind Matriarch Aethyta. The esteemed asari, used to putting on airs, concealed her amusement behind a cool and composed expression. The twinkle in her eye belied the sternness of her posture as she squared her shoulders.

"Miranda", chided Matriarch Aethyta. "You know better than to bully the engineers. We're as much a team as we are a family aboard this ship".

Miranda feigned contrition. Her mouth turned down unhappily as she readily adopted the role of the rueful child. It was an act, always conducted in concert with Aethyta, that she'd perfected over the six long and stressful months spent aboard the Reaper frigate. Veetor was fooled the second Miranda meekly bowed her head. The soft subdued apology, spoken with earnest honesty, convinced the self-conscious quarian of her sincerity.

"You are right of course, Matriarch Aethyta", admitted Miranda. The modest nod, a delicate dip of the head, showed her obeisance. Aethyta made a better ally than an enemy, especially when Shepard's health and safety were concerned. Miranda had chosen to shore up her defences lest there was a rogue element amidst the crew. The commodity of trust was best fostered with a generous amount of charm, the right application of force, and the forming of mutually beneficial alliances.

"I am sorry for raising my voice, Veetor", apologised Miranda. She sighed wearily, the worry showing through her usually immaculate professionalism. Shepard would always be the chink in her armour. Miranda's brows furrowed as she tried to shake off that nagging sense of unease. She was unnerved by the possibility that a member of her carefully chosen team could be working as a double-agent.

"I am under a great deal of pressure to ensure the success of our mission", admitted Miranda. She paced restlessly for several seconds, walking back and forth over a narrow strip of the cargo-bay floor. The deck thudded hollowly under the strident click of her heels. "The slightest deviation from protocol makes me nervous. I admit that I have been a little testy lately. But that does not", stated Miranda. "Give me any right to take my temper out on you".

"No it doesn't", agreed Matriarch Aethyta. Miranda resisted the urge to smile when Veetor, suitably convinced, voluntarily unclogged his own voice-box. It was a refreshing change to hear him speak clearly if quietly. He was still painfully shy, but when sufficiently motivated, he could be counted on to have an opinion. Miranda was pleased when Veetor empathised with her situation.

"I understand", replied Veetor. He couldn't quite meet her eye, but Miranda was satisfied with the anxious bob of his helmeted-head. "You're worried about Commander Shepard", said Veetor. "She's important to me too". Miranda shared a meaningful look with her chief conspirator.

Aethyta took the silent cue. "Veetor", she said gently. "What would you do if someone aboard this ship intended to hurt the Commander?" The quarian's reaction was understandable. Veetor had been a recipient of Shepard's compassion. His people had also benefited from her tireless efforts to end the Morning War.

_Peacefully_.

Miranda was unsurprised when Veetor's shyness evaporated. The straightening of his spine, the hard tension in his shoulders, and the way his booted feet planted firmly on the cargo-bay floor showed the abrupt change in his focus. Quarians were known for their strong communal sense of family. Miranda was glad for Shepard's tendency to collect allies like stray cats. Veetor, just like Tali'Zorah, seemed to consider her a close personal friend.

"_Who wants to hurt Shepard_?" demanded Veetor. The shy quarian was gone. Veetor was bristling with fury, the flange of his voice, filtered through his helmet amplified the territorial growl. He was _furious_. Miranda was unfazed when Veetor asked her a very personal question.

"_Is it Cerberus_?"

Matriarch Aethyta stepped in before Veetor could advance on their ship's resident Commanding Officer. He respected Miranda's authority, but he was leery of her history with the human survivalist paramilitary group. "We're not sure", admitted Aethyta as she turned to face the peeved quarian. She insinuated herself squarely between Veetor and Miranda to avoid a direct confrontation. He was known for being emotionally unstable when agitated.

"_How can you not be sure_?" hissed Veetor.

Aethyta was more amused than concerned when he spat a quarian curse. The flange of his voice sounded icy in her ears when he turned on Miranda with a snarl. "Is there a genuine threat to Shepard's safety aboard this ship?" He glared at Miranda, suddenly angry over her inability to root out any potential dangers.

"Miranda", prompted Aethyta. She remained rooted on the spot, skirts billowing around her ankles, as she kept a vigilant watch on Veetor. She was certain that she could handle the quarian on her own if he decided to act rashly. Veetor wasn't violent by nature, but he did have a reputation for being unpredictable. "Show him the footage", urged Matriarch Aethyta.

Veetor waited impatiently for Miranda to respond. The folding of his arms across his chest, the rhythmic tapping of his booted toes, and the agitated shaking of his helmeted head revealed his annoyance. Matriarch Aethyta nodded and Miranda's fingertips, on cue, danced in mid-air. The holographic orange glove, transparent from her wrist to elbow, activated as Miranda wirelessly accessed Harbinger's security files. She was adroit at navigating through the innumerable grainy time-stamped video-feeds.

Aethyta waited while Miranda cycled through the files on her omnitool. The tactic made Veetor squirm. The restless drumming of his gauntleted fingers on the arm of his enviro-suit revealed his anxiety. Aethyta was certain they had chosen wisely in selecting Veetor (rather than his superior Zan'Vael) to investigate the anomaly aboard the ship. His meticulous skill as an engineer would surely be an asset in catching the illusive spectre haunting Shepard.

"You must have some proof of the threat", said Veetor.

Aethyta tried to judge the quarian's mood. She hated how his face was concealed by the tinted visor in his helmet. It was impossible to see his expression, especially when only the tip of his nose, and the pearlescent glow of his eyes were visible. Quarians were still, even after a thousand years, a very secretive species. Aethyta was pleased when Miranda, ever timely, promptly took the lead again.

"We do".

Aethyta looked on while Miranda, stepping around her, moved into Veetor's line of sight. The ship's acting CO offered the anxious quarian an up-close view of the ghost that had been Shepard's constant companion since she'd left the ship's medical bay. The footage was grainy, the image distorted, but the green radiance was still visible. Miranda frowned as she played back the video-feed, revealing Shepard floating comatose inside the med-bay's large Reaper-grade regeneration tank. The Commander was unconscious, her eyes closed, her mouth and nose sealed by a respirator.

Shepard's head, shaved bare, lolled buoyant as a bubble inside the tank's store of regenerative fluid. She was naked under a spiralling mass of tubes and wires connected to her limbs. Her hands floated, as did her feet, and she appeared weightless like a fish behind glass. Miranda turned to Veetor when she heard the sharp hiss of his breath. The startled gasp was a viscerally reflexive reaction when he was faced with the harsh reality.

The indomitable _Commander Shepard_, saviour of the Citadel, was just a mortal woman.

"So that's how you healed Shepard", said Veetor. He gestured to the holographic image projected by Miranda's omnitool. Her silent nod confirmed his suspicions. "Now I understand why access to the medical wing was restricted". Veetor was quiet when he considered the heightened security measures too. "You didn't want anyone to see Shepard so vulnerable".

Miranda arched an eyebrow speculatively. "I didn't want anyone tampering with the tank".

Veetor nodded. "Shepard has as many friends".

"As she has enemies", concluded Miranda.

Matriarch Aethyta was pleasantly surprised when they shared a moment of mutual understanding. Shepard had a way of making allies out of the most unlikely people. Aethyta was impressed that she could, even when unconscious in another room on the same ship, foster comradery amidst her ragtag band of fanatical followers. Every member of the crew, just like Veetor, had a personal story involving Shepard impacting on their lives in ways great and small. Some tales were positive, others negative, but most revolved around the idea that Shepard was a heroine.

Aethyta's skirts swirled around her ankles as she took the initiative. She joined Miranda and Veetor as they pored over the footage. The grainy video-feed, dated and time-stamped, revealed its origin in the ship's medical-bay. The sterile white-washed walls, floor, and ceiling showed the clinical professionalism of Miranda's team of medical personnel. A handful of nurses and doctors wandered into and out of frame toting clipboards and medical supplies.

The video-feed continued to roll. Shepard floated inside the regeneration tank full of lurid grey-blue water-like liquid. She was unconscious, eyes closed, and body unresponsive until something flared like a beacon on camera. "There", said Miranda. The video-feed paused, the image going still, and there immortalised on screen in grainy playback was a luminescent neon-green anomaly.

"What is that?" asked Veetor.

Aethyta frowned as Miranda played the video-feed in slow-motion. She was just as mystified as Veetor until the footage, lapsing over several exaggerated seconds, gradually revealed an eerie encounter. The quarian's startled gasp sent shivers down her spine. Aethyta heard Veetor's loud and anxious gulp as he swallowed. His reaction was understandable, especially when that anomalous flash of neon-green morphed from a ball of radiance into something shaped like a _person_.

"Who is that would be a better question", corrected Aethyta.

Miranda eyed her asari accomplice. "Your superstitions have no place aboard this ship". She sighed when Aethyta's lip curled irritably. "It's just an anomaly not a ghost", reasoned Miranda. She shook her head disapprovingly when Aethyta countered her argument with pure asari logic.

"I can see what looks like a head, two arms, and two legs".

"It's pure coincidence", stated Miranda. "A mere trick of the light".

"Bullshit", argued Aethyta. She elbowed Veetor hard in the side. "You saw what I did right?" asked Aethyta. She rolled her eyes exasperatedly when Veetor wheezed, stumbled, and nearly lost his footing. "Damned soft-bellied quarians", growled Aethyta. "Can't even take a an elbow to the ribs without falling over".

"Not every alien is as physically resilient as a krogan", said Miranda. "Catch him before he injures himself". Miranda frowned. "Zan will give me an earful if one of his precious engineers suffered a broken toe". She ignored the suggestive waggle of Aethyta's brows when the asari slung an arm around Veetor's shoulders.

"You know that Shepard has excellent taste", teased Aethyta. "Dextro men have greater reach and flexibility than their levo cousins". Aethyta bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. "I should know. My first bond-mate was a sexy-ass turian who could spin me like a top, tie me in a knot, and bend me over backward till I screamed". Aethyta smiled wistfully at the memory of her energetic and adventurous spouse.

"He's been dead for four hundred years, but he can still rock my little blue world".

Aethyta giggled girlishly as he steadied Veetor. He teetered precariously on the tips of his booted toes. "Be careful, Mr. Ballerina", cautioned Matriarch Aethyta. "Falling flat on your face will only guarantee a concussion when you're wearing that much metal". She sympathetically patted Veetor on the shoulder as he slowly regained his balance.

"You poor bastard", said Aethyta. "Being stuck in that enviro-suit 24-7 must really kill the romance".

"_Aethyta_!" scolded Miranda.

The asari matriarch rolled her eyes. Her nose wrinkled disdainfully. "You humans are hypocrites. You're all sexual liberation when you're running around bare-ass naked with your boobs and balls hanging out", retorted Aethyta. She was unamused when Miranda's lip curled indignantly. "Next thing you're all prudes, covering up from chin to toe, hiding what the Goddess gave you".

Aethyta snorted derisively. "Face it, Miranda. You humans are perverts just like every other filthy-minded little miscreant in the galaxy". Aethyta fearlessly looked her in the eye. "Remember", she declared boldly. "We didn't have _Fornax_ until you humans discovered the pleasures of inter-species fornication".

Aethyta smirked when Miranda blushed. She winked cheekily at Veetor as she pulled him along like a varren on a leash. The poor quarian, having regained his footing, was desperately trying to pry himself loose. Aethyta's grip on his shoulders, strong as a krogan, kept him locked tight to her side. Veetor's helmeted-head head bowed in defeat as he was steered toward Miranda.

"You're cute when you're all pink and flustered ", teased Aethyta. "But much as I like staring at your pretty little ass, Miranda, we have work to do". She waggled her brows, dark eyes twinkling merrily, when the ship's resident CO scowled. The telling pink glow in Miranda's cheeks did not diminish her professionalism. Aethyta grinned when Veetor was immediately invited to further their investigation.

"We need your help, Veetor", said Miranda. She gestured to the image frozen on her omnitool. "I can give you direct access to the raw video-feeds recorded over the past three months". Miranda beseeched the quarian for his expert assistance. "You are the only person aboard this ship that has the experience we need".

"You want me to do what I did on Freedom's Progress", replied Veetor.

Aethyta nodded. "That's right, kid. You're smart, quiet, and crazy enough to sit on your ass for hours while wading through a shit-load of security vids".

Veetor anxiously twiddled his thumbs. "If it will help Shepard".

"It will", assured Miranda.

Veetor's helmeted-head bobbed in acquiescence. "I'll do it".

Miranda shared a conspiratorial look with Aethyta. "Thank you, Veetor", she replied. "We're grateful for your assistance, but I must ask you to be discreet", stated Miranda. "This is a sensitive issue. I do not want to cause Shepard or the crew undue distress".

Aethyta gently squeezed Veetor's shoulders. "She's right. We need complete secrecy until we know who and what we're dealing with".

Miranda grimaced when Veetor named another entity that could analyse her store of footage in seconds rather than hours.

"Harbinger could collate, organise, and examine the video-feeds faster than I could".

Aethyta glanced worriedly between Miranda and the timid quarian at her side. Her co-conspirator was wary of the Reaper AI. Harbinger may have provided the means to restore Shepard, but he had not earned an ounce of Miranda's trust. She had not forgotten that he was the first Reaper constructed by the ill-fated Leviathans. Aethyta winced when Miranda tersely rejected Veetor's suggestion.

"I asked for _your_ help", hissed Miranda. "Are you refusing to cooperate?"

Aethyta felt sorry for the twitchy quarian. Miranda could intimidate the bravest soul when she was angry. She did not roar like a krogan or snarl like a varren. Her brand of rage made her frigid, dark, and as poisonous as liquid mercury. Aethyta saw the icy glint of her eyes, focused and predatory, as she regarded Veetor like a varren would a pyjack.

"No!" squeaked Veetor.

Aethyta held firm when he tried to skitter behind her again.

Miranda was making him nervous.

"I _want_ to help!" blurted Veetor.

Aethyta sighed in relief when Miranda smiled, the chill in her gaze melting, as satisfaction replaced indignation.

"Good", said Miranda. "Then we'll start immediately".


End file.
